


The Color of Fixed Points

by Demibel



Category: Doctor Who, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angsty friendships, Because eleventh doctor, Crossover, Doctor Who Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demibel/pseuds/Demibel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor lands in Paris, 1832 and befriends a bunch of schoolboys, much to his regret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Color of Fixed Points

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at Doctor Who fic, and crossover fic. Hope you enjoy it!

The city was thrumming with the swell of revolution. The people were so distracted by their schoolboys, those just-turned men yelling about equality that they didn’t notice the new arrival, or his transport, though that could have been his cloaking mechanisms. He arrived without much fanfare, just a startled cat or two when the blue police box materialized in an ally way of Paris in 1832. He’s been doing this for a long time, after all, and it’s not his first visit to France. It’s changed a bit since his last time, or maybe it’s just his perspective. Last time he landed among the ritz and beauty of Versailles, and he got to dance with the Madame de Pompadour herself. This time, however, he landed smack dab in the middle of the slums.  
The Doctor was used to the suffering of the people, after seeing over a thousand years of it. It didn’t hurt less, when he saw a starving child begging on the street, or an old woman, huddled in tattered rags for warmth. His hearts ache for them, but this is not a rescue trip. This was a stand-back-and-let’s-see-what-happens-because-humans-are-absolutely-amazing trip. The TARDIS would be fine on her own for a bit, he was going to explore.  
He was drawn by the crowd of cheers, and the sight of some younger boys yelling. “General LaMarque! The people’s man! We stand with him, we stand for you!” Some other students were passing out pamphlets, which he took gratefully. “Oh, freedom and liberty and brotherhood, excellent!” He muttered to himself, flipping through the material. “Sir, we meet at the Café Musain every evening after rallies. If you have interest in our cause, you should attend.” A young bald gentleman smiled warmly, expecting an answer. “Brilliant! I love meetings. Always something interesting to learn at meetings. I’ll be there.” He tapped the boy’s head with one of the papers, much to his confusion. Later he would learn that the boy was named Bossuet, or Laigle, or Leslie or something like that. He introduced himself as Dr. Smith, John, and Englishman on holiday.  
The blonde one, the leader, Enjolras, he was called made the Doctor smile. Oh he loved the passionate ones. The ones with fire in their eyes and in their souls and a good head on their shoulders. Those were the kinds of humans who did good work because they could, and because they needed to. Oh yes, he liked Enjolras quite a bit. Combeferre reminded him of himself at that age. Studious, reserved, the glasses, he liked those. Watching that man do equations brought him back to his Academy days. Courfeyrac reminded him of Jack, right away. The law student had been the first after Bossuet to greet him, with a hearty handshake, a wink, and a drink of nasty red wine. The urge to tell him to stop was overwhelming, but for once the Doctor bit his tongue. He couldn’t help but chuckle at Joly, with his little hand mirror. Yes, he was a doctor, but no, not that kind of doctor. Joly didn’t care for him very much after that.  
Bahorel was one of those humans that the Doctor would have to like from afar. The big man liked his drink and his fists too much, even if he was mostly good, self preservation instincts kicked in. He didn’t feel like getting hit by a massive human fist. He rather liked Jehan though; the mild man was much more his type. He liked the blush that rose to the poet’s cheeks when he started talking rapidly about revolutions of the past and put his arm around his shoulders and that lavender vest goes very well with that red cravat and my goodness is that a poem, can I read it? He was a fan of Feuilly as well, ha ha, get it Feuilly, because you make fans. Feuilly, though un-amused by Dr. Smith’s puns, tolerated them, because he was actually giving them good information. Marius just seemed swept up by the enthusiasm of the stranger, and often avoided him when he came to meetings. One Courfeyrac was enough, in his opinion. Grantaire was the only one the Doctor actively avoided though. The cynic’s eyes tracked him with a cold glare. It wasn’t unfriendly, but it set him at an unease that he was unused to with humans. Maybe it was his disbelief that a foreigner could care about their cause, or just his general indifference to himself, but something about Grantaire just didn’t set right with him, and he was glad to be out from under that cold gaze whenever possible.  
The good doctor seemed a god send at the time. He was knowledgeable far beyond his years and was willing to work with them, and to Enjolras, that was enough. Even his aversion to guns did not devalue him. A pair of hands was a pair of hands, and Dr. Smith had a very helpful pair of hands. Save for the guns and ammunition, he seemed fascinated with getting his hands on everything, studying it like he had never seen it before, and making observations that even the keenest of eyes had missed. And the way he was with the people, his enthusiasm and humor were catching; Even Enjolras could be seen sporting a smile with the good doctor was cracking jokes with Courfeyrac and Jehan.  
He felt things so strongly, some might say it was because he had twice the heart of the men that he had befriended, but he would argue against that. He felt so much because he had to. He could see how each one of their motions would change the world, and not for the first or last time, he felt a hint of a spark of pride. These little humans, so grand in their schemes, so small in their actions, and they could change the course of history. Of course, this was mixed with the indescribable consequences that made Dr. Smith’s eyes look so tired and old, a trait Grantaire found fascinating. For such a young looking man to have such eyes, the artist found endless excuses to draw something other than his usual sketches of Enjolras, or his other amis. Every so often, Feuilly would catch him sketching the Doctor, capturing an age that they could only see in the right light.  
Because he knew, of course. He knew as soon as he saw the house, and the café and the date. He knew who these boys were and he still let himself get attached. He learned all their names, and he learned about what they liked and what they didn’t like. He learned that Jehan’s favorite flower was peonies, but he hated pears too, and Courfeyrac was actually a very skilled runner, and liked racing with the gamins after he had left food and blankets in their stone elephant without telling them who had left them. And Combeferre has a particular interest in insects and moths and butterflies. And Feuilly falls asleep in the café more often than not because he’s overworked to the point of exhaustion, but he still comes to meetings, and Joly and Bossuet are in love with the most beautiful singer in all of Paris. And Bahorel is really talented at sizing trousers, even for someone with legs like his, and gosh he looks good, thanks for the suggestion. And Enjolras takes his tea with a sugar cube because it reminds him of home and that’s the only way he can relax after a long day of being Enjolras, and Grantaire covers Enjolras with blankets when the man passes out on the nearest table. And Marius is trying to court a woman, even though his grandfather doesn’t approve. He grows attached to these schoolboys, with all their flaws, and their fire, and their absolute human-ness, and he can’t do a thing to save them.  
Because they’re a fixed point in time. They’re the spark that ignites a flame of freedom throughout the country, and without their deaths….it won’t happen. And he knows this, and he can’t do a single thing. Because in reality, the Doctor isn’t much good for anything.  
The date approaches, and the Doctor should go, he should really go, but he can’t tear himself away from his schoolboys just yet. General LaMarque is dead, and the date is soon. It’s looming over him like a shadow and only Grantaire notices the shadows, and it shows in his last sketch. Clear as day, there are circles under Dr. Smith’s eyes, and his smile doesn’t quite stretch across his cheeks.  
“Why?” The skeptic throws his sketchbook down in front of the older man, showing him his latest drawing. The Doctor is speechless. He’s never seen himself in the way that Grantaire has drawn him. A fake, a masquerade, untrustworthy, and hiding a secret. “Aren’t you nervous?” he counters, his tone curious. “No. If I die then it will be a coward’s death, and no more than I deserve. But you…you know something more than us, don’t you? Are you a spy?” His gaze is cold, and for once, there is a hint of anger where there is normally indifference. “Not at all, ‘Taire. I’m just John Smith.” Useless, cowardly, not good enough for the friends he had surrounded himself with. In that moment, the drunk and the Doctor understood each other perfectly.  
The day arrived and Dr. Smith still couldn’t tear himself away. Not yet. He could stay to say goodbye, surely. And to maybe have one last cup of tea with the boys before they went off. And maybe see them off safely. And maybe he’d just wait to see what happened when they came back, just to see. He hugged them all, even Grantaire, before he locked himself in with the innkeeper’s wife and daughter.  
He didn’t like guns. He didn’t like the sound they made when they took someone’s life, he didn’t like the flash of the metal, he didn’t like the smell of gunpowder, and he certainly didn’t like the sounds of his schoolboys dying below him. He cried out with all of them as they started experiencing their first real losses. Bahorel, Gavroche, Eponine, all of them, one by one fell to the hated guns. He shed his tears as he heard Jehan, the sweet poet call out for aid and ached when none came to him. He winced when he heard the final shots of a firing squad, execution style, and then the heavy silence that followed.  
The Doctor called Smith was among the first who ventured out of their homes to tend to the dead. If he was useless, at least let him do this. At least let him give these heroes a proper honor. He went to each one, touching the side o their heads and telling them a secret. Every single one of them would not stir even as he told them he was sorry, but they’ve succeeded. That they were the catalyst that freed a country. He told them everything, that they were fixed points in time, and if he could have stopped it he would have, but look at what they’ve done? They did so well, and your Doctor is so proud of you.  
And then, as always, the Doctor was alone again. His schoolboys were gone, and the people forgot about the strange, tall, thin man who had touched their lives in the most meaningless of ways. Marius was getting well, and getting married, the people were stirring, angry at their government for what they took, and the blood was being washed off the cobblestones and soon enough the streets would be all clean and a new France would rise out of the blood that the Doctor’s schoolboys shed. He wasn’t needed any longer. Not here. This trip was over, and as he looked back over his shoulder at the Café Musain, he smiled sadly. Fixed points in time, they were always the hardest.


End file.
